


BFF

by fuckyeahlucifersupernatural



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Coercion, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Remember when I came back from break all messed up -- Dropped out of pre-med, the drugs, the bitches? That was the new Brady. That was me. Remember how much time you spent trying to get me back on the right track?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	BFF

**Author's Note:**

  * For [i-see-light](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=i-see-light).



> Birthday Present for i-see-light.  
> Requested: bottom!Sam
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of service. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copyright infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

B+ blood no longer flowed fluidly through his veins. Hell bleeds through. It heightens the senses in this meatsuit, enough where Brady can smell the anxiety off of Sam. A few weeks ago he was racing across Hell, the Horsemen’s stable boy being summoned for a new purpose: keep an eye on Sam Winchester. Demons killed to have the honor of being near the Boy King - the very body that would soon house their Father. To think that in a handful of years, he’d be looking at the Devil wearing the face of a saint. 

As fascinating as it is to be near Sam Winchester, Brady was itching to get out, to use and abuse his own vessel to the fullest. He could freely drink, fuck, drive reckless, get into fights, and smoke whatever the hell he wished to. This was freedom from the sweltering heat of Hell and the unyielding torture that came with it. Might as well milk it for all it’s worth. 

“Well, Sammy? You going to let me out or what?” he sneers, not bothering to hold up some facade that masks his condescending tone. 

Sam’s standing in front of his apartment door, effectively blocking his way in a t-shirt and jeans. The epitome of concern and stubbornness, trying so damn hard to help his little friend Brady. Brady wasn’t wracking about in this skull anymore. He drowned in Lake Havasu weeks ago. It’s thrilling to be back on Earth, a once naive soul not utterly twisted and disgusting, walking about with primordial carnal thoughts because this is the long-stretch towards freedom. Absolutely thrilling to be looking at the face of what Lucifer will eventually wear. A surreal thought. Regardless, the knot of chaos that once was a soul pushes at him to find the most willing of bodies, to watch them break and than lounge about in the sway of the music with a cigarette in hand. 

That’s only a Tuesday night. Wait till you hear about Fridays. 

“Brady, please. Come on, man. Let’s just do something here tonight. Going out and getting wasted will always be available,” Sam’s trying to reason diplomatically. Sam’s been worried since day one when his friend came back with a foul mouth and a penchant of getting himself into trouble. He’s been trying to reason with to his best friend who died long ago. Now Brady could stay with Sam but he couldn’t stand watching television, pretending to do homework, exercising and other nonsensical human actions. Although Brady liked how Sam floundered around trying to save him -- his best friend. He went out of his way to give him a helping hand, once even offering to do his homework just because he couldn’t bear to see him get kicked out of the pre-med program. It must be real nice having normal and dull problems such as this. It’s keeping Sam off hunting, which is actually more reality than this college stunt. 

The demon thinks Sam enjoys worrying about this and that makes his lips tickle into a grin, because that means he has the advantage nine times out of ten. “Well, I want to go out, get drunk and get laid. I don’t see how that’s awful - if anything, a bit cliched,” Brady replied, folding his arms across his chest. A wicked grin slips on his lips as he leans forward a bit, “So how about we compromise, hm? For you, Sam, I’ll compromise.” 

Sam sighs in relief, giving a nod. “Man, that’s all I wanted to hear --”

“So let me fuck you.” 

The retired hunter stares at him, dumb and mute at the words that slipped out of Brady’s mouth. The blond drinks in his shock and horror, fighting back the urge to just laugh. Instead he shrugs his shoulders when he can see the rapt discomfort beginning to twist its way into Sam’s face. “Look. I got ready today to get laid and we can do this two ways, Sam. You can let me out and go on my merry way, or you can be my babysitter for the night. Ball is in your court,” Brady heaved out, waving a hand in ready shooing for the Winchester to move away from the door. 

“Wait,” Sam grits out, composing himself -- or at least trying. His body remains in front of the door, fists unclenching and clenching by his sides. “If I do this...will you just...pretend to care about you? What you’re doing with yourself?” Brady blinks quietly at him, mouth twisting into a curious little smile. 

“You have to be a bit more specific, Sam.” Sam’s asking for a deal. Yes, this one won’t consist of the trading of souls, but it’s a deal. Two consenting beings making an exchange. Broad statements are nothing but a cruel trick to get you roped into something either incredibly stupid or provide a wide enough hole for someone to jump through. Of course Sam doesn’t know of deals. Doesn’t know of demons. Doesn’t understand that every single being that he’s been forming relationships with are nothing but moved pawns, black-eyed and cackling behind his back. 

Sam works his jaw. “You get your head back in the game with pre-med. You finish it all the way through. Deal?” 

“Done.” The blond-haired demon nods before his hand is slapping over his wrist. “You really up for this, Sam? I’m not exactly a blossoming woman in her twenties with a C-cup,” Brady points out because he doubts that Sam has been with another man. Most of all, he knows for a fact that Sam has never been with a being like him - carved out of the pits of Hell and working with the legendary Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He can’t understand, yet, the depth of the bruises he will receive and the ringlets of red from his teeth. But Sam only takes a shaky breath and nods, telling the demon that Sam had no clue what he was getting into except that he’s just jumping at any sort of remedy that will bring a happy ending. Getting Sam hooked on demon blood was going to be too easy later down the road. 

What a sucker. 

Brady drags Sam, without warning, away from the safety the door could bring. There was no escaping this. He can feel Sam resisting, not following his jerky movements with enthusiasm. That’s okay. It didn’t bother the blond-haired demon as he pushes Sam into the bedroom. 

“Strip, Winchester,” he orders. 

Sam is rubbing his wrist where Brady gripped too tight, looking hurt even in the dimness of the bedroom. He looks ready to protest, to beg for an alternative, but the blond shoots him down with a menacing glare.

“You want to help? Than be a good little boy and take off your clothes.” 

Shame burns Sam’s cheeks a hot red and he begins to pull his shirt off. He’s still rather scrawny, but he’s beginning to build and develop those thick muscles. But domesticity will only make him lose it... The shirt drops on the floor, as Sam’s toeing out of his shoes and socks. He has to bend down to peel them off before his fingers are hovering on the button of those jeans. Brady’s ready to bark at him to keep on going, that he doesn’t have the patience to watch this sad pussyfooting, but Sam picks at the button before the words can form. They’re dragging that zipper down and the jeans are soon off. The boxer briefs are shucked and Brady smirks at the flaccid cock. Impressive, even if it wasn’t at attention... 

“Now take off my clothes.” 

He’s embarrassed. Gritting his teeth and doing this because Sam’s a good friend. Sam will go the distance if it means saving one person. Brady wants to laugh and shake Sam by the shoulders, harassing him on how goddamn stupid he can be. If only Sammy could be selfish, he wouldn’t be fumbling with the buttons of his shorts like a clumsy twelve-year-old. Blue eyes stare at Sam, his head bowed down and brown hair blocking the demon from seeing his face. He can smell Sam’s sweat. Can feel the trembling of his limbs. It’s disgustingly pleasurable watching Sam take off his clothes, listening to him suck in the air around him when Brady’s cock is free from the confines of his underwear. 

When his clothes are tossed onto the floor, Sam’s smaller in shape. Minimizing himself in this situation as if he could escape the wrongness of this all. 

“Relax, Sammy. It’s like riding a bike,” the blond coos out, reaching out with a hand to grip Sam’s length, giving it a experimental squeeze. Sam nearly jumps out of his skin before remaining still, breath laborious and eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. “Shh, didn’t I say relax? Now lay down on the bed.” 

There is Lucifer’s vessel crawling on the bed, sitting anxiously on the bed. Here is a hunter who has faced monsters twice his size reduced to this. Oh how low Sam will go to save. It’s enough to make Brady’s tongue press against his own teeth, hungry and deliriously drunk off this submission. “On your stomach,” he twirls his finger and Sam does so, flinching when the bed dips when Brady climbs on. 

Situating himself above Sam’s thighs, his hands reach out to run across the Winchester’s backside. They push and run across the unmarked flesh, gripping it with his fingers. His hand moves before falling down on a cheek, the sound cracking through the night and causing the Winchester to yelp. He nearly pulls away but the demon presses his weight down until Sam stills. He does it again. Brings his down again and again until his hand has left an ugly welt, skin raised and vibrant. Sam is sinking his teeth into the comforter, giving a strangled sound when a hot, scorching tongue traces each raised finger on his backside. 

Brady sucks on the welt before sinking his teeth into it, Sam nearly crying at the pain. He thinks it’s the humiliation that’s really pushing those pretty sounds out. Moving his mouth to the unmarked cheek, he bites and sucks on the marks until Sam’s panting once more. Fingers push Sam open, staring down at that pretty pink hole. With a hum in content, he bends down to swipe at it with his tongue, Sam jerking into movement. 

Sam recoils and twists away, body pressing itself against the headboard, looking raptly hesitant and unsure. Brady sighs and curls his finger at the Winchester for him to come back to him. “I told you, Sam. The layout and the concept is a bit different. But you made an agreement,” Brady tutted, condescending and harsh with his words, “Don’t puss out on me when we haven’t even gotten to the good stuff.” 

Brady expected this. Expected the wariness and the repulsion at the role that he has to play. Brady isn’t here to reaffirm Sam’s identity as an individual. He’s here to strip that identity away, replace it with tragedy. Weeks from now he’ll introduce little Sammy to Jessica, watch the two fall in love as he pretends to be the best friend going down south. They’ll lovingly aid him and he’ll show progress blah blah blah. Sam Winchester is Lucifer’s vessel. That’s his identity. Lucifer is his identity. Not Dean Winchester. Not hunting. Not Stanford. Not an undergraduate student. Not a human being with thoughts and crap feelings. He’s a vehicle. A means to an end. Here Sam is, trying so damn hard to build himself from the ground-up in a life that doesn’t have hunting. Brady will help build Sam up, but only to kick this pedestal of normalcy from underneath his feet. 

The greater the fall, the greater the impact. 

This here. This pushing of Sam. He’s setting up the stage and there’s a swell of pride that makes him smile, nearly groaning at the sheer pleasure it’s going to be in helping break Sam down. 

“Look, Sam, you want to help me out or not? Be a friend or let me leave so I can do what I wanted to do in the first place,” he harasses. Guilt trips. Not hiding the fact that he is going to use Brady’s own well-being as a leverage to get Sam to do as he pleases. Coercion never felt so good.

Sam shuffles back, shooting something akin to an annoyed look as he clambers back on the bed. Shoulders tense when fingers run across his backside, a chuckle trapped low in the demon’s throat. He wastes no time bending his body down to swipe across the pink rim of Sam’s entrance. Sam gasps and fists into the comforter as the blond leaves wet stripes across the Winchester. Brady’s tongue hellish heat against his skin, leaving the hunter shuddering at the licks of fire that race across his spine. When tongue presses into him, teasing and toying about the edges until Brady’s forcing breathy sounds. 

“Didn’t know Sam Winchester was a bit of a backdoor slut,” he belittles and Sam flinches at the words, neck furiously pink in shade. Brady remembered the first few times he let his foul mouth get the best of him, watching Sam go red and confused that someone like Brady -- Mr. Perfect -- was being crude. 

“Stop it.”

Brady does stop, perplexed at the soft exhale of words, those shoulder blades trembling. Brady blinks and reaches out with his hand to grab at the back of Sam’s hair. With a harsh tug, he pulls at it, the Winchester gritting his teeth as he’s forced back. “Stop what, Sam?” Brady finally asks when the plane of Sam’s back is pressed into his chest. 

Sam twists and frowns in his new position before giving up. “Stop saying that crap. It’s not you,” is the response and the demon snorts. “You’re better than this, Brady. Come on...” Sam insists. One day Sam will understand what he is. One day he’ll connect all those dots. Today is not that day, however, and Brady has no intention on being sweet with the Winchester. So he moves his other hand down to Sam’s entrance and promptly shoves his forefingers into Sam without warning. Sam whines and nearly thrashes, but the grip on his hair keeps him put.

“It’s the truth, though,” he replies innocently, letting those fingers push into Sam and out in lazy thrusts. Sam’s wincing at the rough burn but Brady continues until muscles finally give in. 

“Are you hard for me, Sammy?” Brady purrs and Sam is silent. He asks the question again and yanks on the hair in his grasp, causing Sam to hiss at the pain.

“Y-Yes.” 

Brady smiles sweetly, “Yes, what?” 

He only wish he could see the look on Sam’s face right now. How twisted with conflict and humiliation it must be. “Yes, I’m...hard for you,” Sam finally lets the word spill out and Brady curls his fingers in reward, actively searching for the Winchester’s prostate. It takes a few tries before he’s pushing against it, the hunter jolting in his grip and moaning at the sudden surge of pleasure. He wants to see Sam’s reaction when there’s blood on his mouth. That blood that makes Sam one of them, whether he likes it or not. But it’s too soon, Azazel would point out. Too soon to introduce him to it in this part of the story. It does nothing to sedate the demon’s curiosity and the more he thinks of it, fantasies how Sam would react, the more he’s tempted to give it a try. Just a few drops. Nothing too serious. 

Pulling his fingers out of Sam, he pushes the hunter back down on the bed. “Stay,” he orders as he slips off, meandering out of the room to the kitchen to fish for a knife. Picking one out, he moves back to the room to see Sam on his back now. His eyes go wide at the sight of the knife.

“Brady -- hey, man, what’re you doing -- ” 

“Calm down, Winchester,” Brady rolls his eyes as he climbs back on the bed, straddling Sam who is rather....impressive under the belt. Pressing the blade against his forearm, he dragged steel against flesh and it broke with ease. Tossing the knife aside, he presses into the thin cut with his fingers before pushing it into Sam’s mouth. Sam scrunches his eyes, ready to argue before a choked groan pours out of his lips, hands gripping at Brady’s thighs. Brady watches Sam grow suddenly in lust with the red on his fingers. He moves so Sam can sit up, the hunter eager and lips already painted red.

Sweeter than mother’s milk, Azazel would comment. The blood that burned through their veins were virtually useless to each other if consumed. To Sam Winchester, a drop makes his chest constrict and pupils burst into black shards across his iris, overtaking the twists of green and brown. 

He sucks on Brady’s fingers. Laps at each blood-drenched digit. Sam opens his mouth expectantly, waiting for Brady’s fingers to press into the side of his mouth when they’re coated with blood once more, smearing red into pink flesh. Brady watches unabashedly. Watches Sam lean forward and beg through breathy whines for more. Blue eyes observe with twisted glee Sam’s erection. It’s heavy, weight preventing it from fully pressing into Sam’s navel in its attentive state. Precum beads out, accumulating together so that it can slide down the head of Sam’s cock.  
“Big boy, aren’t ya,” he taunts, far from surprised. Nothing but near perfection for Lucifer. Brady has never met the fated archangel who was the first to refute God, but the Horsemen speak of him. Everything he touched brought tragedy and that he could suck the light out of the world if he wished. Sam Winchester had to mirror him in certain lights despite the obvious flaw being mortality and humanity. In Sam Winchester was the power to break and turn the land into a wasteland of pitch black, hogging the light he stole. That’s why this…this is forbidden. He should not touch Lucifer’s vessel as such but temptation is a contract he signed eons ago. The power trip brought by Sam on his knees, cock in dire need of relief and mouth ajar is enough for him to push the envelope even more. Azazel doesn’t need to know of this event.  
Brady watches Sam suck on his fingers, trying to take all of his fingers into his mouth. “Greedy little slut… You want more?” Sam nods and that is earned a rough tug to his hair, the Winchester hissing in pain, mouth slipped off saliva-drenched fingers. “I asked you a question, Sam. Answer it,” Brady commands, tugging further until Sam’s eyes prick with tears in pain.  
“Y-Yes. I want more.”  
The blond feels his lips twitch into a smirk before his hand leaves those brunette locks. Brady brings a hand to the arm he cut, digging his fingers into the wound. Blood pushes out as he digs in, moving his wet fingers of red onto his own cock. Sam doesn’t need coaxing when he moves his hand away from his blood-slicked length. Sam leans forward and sucks on the head, a leech intent on just the blood alone. 

Brady lets his hand slide through Sam’s short locks, applying pressure to the back of his head, coaxing him to take more of him into his mouth. Sam does so without much thought until he’s choking, a hand suddenly pushing at his thigh in resistance. Blue-eyes stare down at the top of Sam’s head, keeping his head in place as the entirety of his arousal is pushed down to his throat. He can feel Sam’s throat flutter, the muscles spasming around and it makes his toes simply curl. It’s only with great chagrin does he move his hand, letting Sam pull away to heave for air. 

Brady coats his cock once more with blood, digging deeper into his wound and Sam helplessly searches after the blood. It’s an action repeated. Sam goes for it each and every time until Brady can’t help but laugh at Sam’s handicap. He tugs on his hair and thrusts shallowly into Sam, this by far the greatest little prank he could pull yet on Sam Winchester. 

Brady releases a shaky groan, pushing Sam’s mouth off of him, feeling that tight pressure twisting in his belly that signified that he was close. He brutally pushes Sam down onto the ground, fingers leaving bruises on his hips as he yanks them up, Sam’s inflamed backside of bite marks and handprints visible even in the dimness of the room. Shit, he’s so close.

Pushing Sam apart, he spares a hand to guide him into Sam, giving a throaty sound at the tight pressure all around him. Brady gives jerky thrusts into this tight heat, feeling resistance the deeper he pushed himself, muscles constricting where he couldn’t work out Sam properly with his fingers and tongue. It’s sixth thrust in does he come with a thick groan, grabbing at Sam’s him as he spills into him. With a ragged sigh he eases out, watching with contempt Sam drip into the bedsheets. Sam’s still hard, still unfinished but he makes no move to attend to it just yet. Instead he rolls onto his back, stomach exposed and cock resting against his navel patiently. 

Brady’s lips curl into a smile as he runs a hand across Sam’s thigh, pushing the hair on his leg up. “What are best friends for anyways, huh?”

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!_


End file.
